Rugby

Someone posted this in a local newsgroup:

If only I was one of those many Kiwi’s in the crowd at todays game! Good on ya “All Blacks”! Making us proud once again! And not to mention our “Lomu”!!!! Making once again – a superb try! The strength in that guy is amazing! Hell, I am on cloud nine right now! Its 6.30am – but to hell with it – I’m gonna celebrate with a beer!!!

Reading between the excess quote marks and exclamation marks, what the poster was pissing their pants with joy about is that the New Zealand rugby team beat the English rugby team in a match.

This is apparently a big deal. So much so that people are meant to be very excited about it and say things like “Mate, did you see the rugby! We totally kicked England’s arse!” to which one is to respond, “Maate!”

Ok cool, but don’t drag me into it.

I tried to like rugby. For about a week I put in a concentrated effort and attempted to be a rugby fan. I watched the beginning of a game, y’know, all the pre-match stuff where they had interviews with the team members (disturbingly enough all wearing the same shirt). Then the game started and I found myself looking at a bunch of guys running around on a field of grass.

That’s the thing, when I look at a game of rugby, it has no form or structure for me. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s some guys and a ball. Sometimes they kick it, sometimes they pass it and other times they run with it. Sometimes they do something and the crowd gets very excited and cheers.

I was at the supermarket a while ago and the checkout girl said, “What did you think of the rugby last night?” Having no idea to what she was referring, I said “I don’t watch rugby.” She looked at me like I had just said that to avoid conversation.

The New Zealand Rugby Union had a thing called “Blackout Day” where everyone was encouraged to wear black in support. All these goths started complaining about Blackout day. “We wear black all the time,” they said. “People will think we support rugby.” Oh they bloody well will not.

Yes, rugby supporters wear black clothes, but not black mesh tops with black PVC pants, not Bauhaus t-shirts. And yes, rugby supporters have been known to paint their faces, but not all white and not with eye liner and black lipstick.

Despite what goths might like to think, there’s pretty much no chance of one being mistaken for a rugbyhead. I was going to suggest that goths should stop complaining, but that’s never going to happen.

I could get all worked up over rugby and those rabid supporters of the sport who would go so far as to call someone like me unpatriotic, but I will decline from doing so.

Instead, I shall politely refrain from participating in the culture of rugby. When someone says, “Did you see the rugby on the weekend?” I shall reply, “No, maaaate.”

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